


Drunk as they watch my shattered edges glisten

by zooniah



Series: Empty Nesting Doll [3]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Author is projecting onto the character, Depressed Peter Parker, Depression, Drugs, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Peter Parker Angst, Peter Parker Deserves Better, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess, Precious Peter Parker, References to Drugs, Underage Drug Use, What are Tags?, im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28596882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zooniah/pseuds/zooniah
Summary: Just Peter Parker is sat on a roof, trying to cope in the best way he knows, thinking about how the fuck he got that low. And what he's willing to do about it.
Series: Empty Nesting Doll [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856899
Kudos: 42





	Drunk as they watch my shattered edges glisten

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a small drabble. It's pretty shit but I listened to Mirrorball by Taylor Swift and wanted to write something.  
> This references my series 'empty nesting doll' but can also be read as a stand-alone fic.

May would be so disappointed in him. 

Peter was high. Every individual thought floated into his consciousness and would evaporate just as fast. But that thought… that one stuck with him.

He was sat on the rooftop of the tower. He’d found a weird solace there, perhaps thinking of all the fond memories of him and Maz on their rooftop. But this one wasn’t quite the same. It was too nice. Too clean. Too safe.

Peter hated it. Everything.

He hated the fact that he was in that tower, surrounded by people constantly. And yet he had never felt more alone. It was a cliche. Peter kicked himself every time he thought it. Drugs tended to make him feel more… wistful. Poetic. As if he could salvage the train wreck that was his life into some sort of beautiful tragedy. As if romanticising it would make it more interesting. More bearable.

Peter hated the fact that everyone thought his life was okay now. As if he hadn’t suffered, and as if the pain of everything isn’t stuck on his flesh like a thick, scaly, second skin that he would never shed. 

“You can’t sprinkle sugar on shit and think it makes everything better,” Peter would think at the back of his head. 

Half the heroes in the building had PTSD. They had all suffered. So Peter had no idea why they thought he would be capable of dealing with everything on his own.

So he found his own ways.

Peter never wanted to be heavily involved with drugs. But on the streets, he’d use them every now and then. Usually with Maz, as he didn’t know where to get them himself. 

Peter saw what it did to other people. He remembered the lectures he’d get in school. And he remembered what addiction did to his mentor. Well, kind of mentor. Putting his relationship with Tony into words was… complicated. Just like everything else in his life.

Which brings him back to the drugs. They just make everything easier. Floatier. Easier to swallow. 

Peter would probably welcome death with open arms like this. He probably would without them. But they would make it so much easier. They make it seem so much closer. 

He felt like an oxymoron. He wasn’t poor and hungry anymore. He was wearing designer clothes, top to bottom, which Pepper had lovingly supplied him with. He was clean, he wasn’t hungry. On paper, his life was perfect now. And yet, he’d taken some pills that had been mixed with God knows what, to try and find… something.

What was he looking for?

Maybe a reason to go. Maybe a reason to stay. 

Peter felt floaty. Imagine the head rush you get as a child, after sucking out all the helium from a balloon. It was like that, but so much better. 

Everything felt so much better. It’s like he was invincible, untouchable. Everything felt like a dream, and he loved it.

Inside his mind, everything always felt like a constant static he could never stop. Everything just always felt like so much, and Peter always felt like he was always treading water. No matter what, he just always felt like there was something. It’s like his body was constantly wound up, sat tautly and ready to do explode. He just always felt like he was moving, like he was stuck in the middle of a busy street. Constantly being knocked around, but unable to move, because he had no destination in mind.

But when he was high. It stopped. Everything stopped. Peter hated silence. But that type of silence was bone-deep. It felt ineffable. There were no words to explain it. It was bliss. The peace washed over him in waves and he loved it, the way it slowly seeped into his brain and melted away his thoughts.

The drugs were the only reason he could keep his shit together. For the most part. As in, usually, he was fine. He didn’t know who he’d be without them anymore. 

He definitely wouldn’t have been the smiley boy the tower had become accustomed to. But that boy wasn’t real anyway.

Sometimes Peter didn’t know if he was real or not. And he didn’t care.

He just wanted to feel good. He felt like he deserved that. Peter didn’t think highly of himself, not by any means. But he knew that he deserved a break, to feel something good. And he would, even if he had to chase short bursts of it, even if it killed him.

He hoped it did. 

Not that he’d ever say it out loud. But that thought lived in the corner of his mind. It was his dirty little secret. Because no one understood why Peter would want an out, now that his life was visibly perfect.

But Peter wasn’t. And he felt the imperfections bone-deep. 

Peter wasn’t okay. He wasn’t. But he knew how to put on a show. And if he had to get through life using drugs as a crutch, he would. 

They made him brave. But once they wore off, he didn’t feel brave enough to take the plunge. To welcome death as he so wanted to. It didn’t feel as romantic sober. It felt cold. It felt lonely. And he didn’t know if the loneliness in death was better or worse than the lonely ache he felt in his chest.  
So he’d get by like this. He’d be the fixed up prodigy, all happy smiles and bubbling laughter. He’d shine brighter than before, brighter than he thought possible. He’d shine bright enough that the glare would stop anyone looking too close.


End file.
